Jellybean Blues

On my better days, I’m sort of a raw food freak.  Or at least I lean that way.  My refrigerator bursts at the seams with bags of green leafy stuff.  Raw nuts spill out of the frig door shelves.  I try to prioritize fresh produce and firmly believe whole, unrefined/unprocessed/unadulterated food is our best medicine and the key to vibrancy and longevity.

BUT.

Brach’s original jellybeans (not those horrible spice bird-egg ones) can shake my purist resolve to the core. Even worse than chocolate brownies.  (For more on brownies see my blog entitled “It Happened AGAIN” posted March 6.)  In my opinion, jellybeans should be banned from the face of the planet. They inspire gluttony.  They take over.

This is why I must not go near them.

But what if I do succumb to jellybean oblivion? The spinach, carrots, broccoli, romaine, kale, and zucchini momentarily lie untouched in their plastic bags in the refrigerator.  I am terrorized and overrun by SUGAR.  A fugitive running from myself. 

Since confession is good for the soul, perhaps I should admit right here and now the things I can do over, for, with, and to a bag of jellybeans.  I’ve been known to obsess over the very thought of them, contrive for them, hide them, and eat them in mass quantities.  Like the whole bag.  Yes.  The Veggie Queen can fall this far into the depths of sugar-depravity.

It’s actually rather pathetic.  This is why I want jellybeans outlawed.